Cardiotropic

Somewhere, just out of sight

around a blind corner in the maze

of electronica,

a rhythmic frog noise burps in two pitches

too loudly to encourage sleep.

I am wired, into telemetry

a racing driver would be proud to wear

but all I can think is that the suction caps

tug at my considerable chest hair

and make me even more fucking miserable.

Heart failure, that’s its real name

I’d better get used to it,

that two-pennyworth of muscle

that keeps the lights on, has finally

decided to blink and ask for help.

I’m in the bargaining-chip age range

sixty-eight

not young enough to be outraged

not old enough to be given up on,

rocked, shocked and desolate

a statistic at last.

*

© Graham Sherwood 02/2020